Too Beautiful
by Ringopolis
Summary: Based off of the song "Too Beautiful" by He Is We. Veser has been coping with the numerous amount of beatings he receives from his father weekly, but one particular beating throws him off edge. Who does he turn to, broken and bloody? Ples, of course.


**A/N: I was inspired to write this based off of the song "Too Beautiful" by He Is We. C: For a friend, since she loves Ples and Veser so much, and the song reminds her of them. Katey this is for you bby -u- 3 Also, first fic I've ever submitted/stuck with say whaaaat? Yeah, totally, so give me tips. /winkwink.**

qpqp

Veser was terrified.

Well, not so much terrified, he thought, but more helpless. Or both. He was terrified and helpless. You'd think he'd be used to it by now, but with each glum night that passed, if it hadn't happened recently, the boy always suspected it would be tonight, or the next.

Every night, he trailed his was back to his shabby house, in his dark, lifeless neighborhood reeking of smoke and gas, and stood still in the doorway. He knew what was coming. Maybe it was knowing that always kept him coming back, but either way, he was apprehensive about getting the whole ordeal over with. No sense trailing it out.

Though spending all day roaming around the city or hanging around acquaintances seemed to allow him to avoid the events that happened in the daytime, or the possibility that something would, his mask of indifference and carelessness always wore away when he trudged back to his residence.

If he was late, his father might be asleep, though that was seldom the case. Veser never knew, never could anticipate what the man's condition was each night, but he wasn't going to wait to find out.

With a deep, shaky breath, he turned the knob and creaked the door open slowly. Inch after inch, breath after breath, he adjusted his eyes and peeked around inside, wondering if he could make a quick get away. It seemed safe enough, no noise, though no breathing was heard aside from his own.

He stepped through cautiously, quietly. Maybe, just maybe, he could get away with no events tonight.

His room was on the right of the hall, across from a bathroom and.. beside his parent's room. Veser clicked the door shut with as much restraint as he could manage and turned around.

Darkness, everywhere. It was a blessing.

He ambled across the carpet slowly, silently, then the tile of the kitchen;

"_Shit!_" he hissed far too loud as his toe collided with a table leg. His heart quickened and he clamped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide. _Oh god, no. No, no, no. Please no._

_Was it that loud? Did anyone hear?_

He held his breath for a minute, listening intently for any sign of another body moving around. But he picked up nothing.

He sighed and once again slid his feet against the tile, careful for the table, and finally back onto the carpet in the pathway to his room. Though he knew it had only been a minute or two, the whole thing seemed like it had taken hours.

"Late again, son?"

Veser froze and tensed up, goosebumps cracking up all throughout his body like tiny needles.

"Hi, dad," his voice cracked.

qpqp

Due to the distinct number of rings his enormous entourage of clocks announced, Ples realized that it was 4 AM, and the man was still up. Not that it was odd, he was usually up late, for it was at night that he truly felt peace, but he really did need his sleep for work. He licked his finger and dog-eared his page, closed the book, and stood up.

His tea had long since gotten cold, so he picked it up and carried it over to his granite counter, settling it onto a plate. He could finish it later, the man decided, and he checked the clock again, fearing he was wheedling away more of his time. Four-o'-two, it read. Time was seeping away. He walked over to the steel sink and washed his hands. The vanilla soap's scent caressed him and a small smile bled onto his lips. He wiped his hands on a deep red cloth that hung above the sink and turned to make his way into the bedroom, but something stopped him.

His doorbell rang, deep and vibrant.

_Who on earth could that be, _he thought uneasily before ambling slowly to the door and creaking it open.

"Hey," a young boy greeted with a sharp wince. Veser.

"V-Veser, what," Ples stuttered, frazzled. "Why in the world are you up at this hour?" Time couldn't have passed _that _fast, right?

"I, um." He rubbed the back of his neck with a sidewards glance, then flinched again. "Rrgh," he frowned and gritted his teeth. "Look, I just, I didn't know where else to..."

"Are you alright..?" the old man asked, taken back.

"Uh... I..." he shook his head. "No." Ples tilted his head, as if to inspect the teen more intently, but the darkness had his eyesight restrained.

"Well, come inside." he led Veser into his house with a light hand on his back, encouraging him further. "Take a seat over there, on the couch."

Veser nodded slowly and- limped, Ples noticed- to the upholstered couch that was still warm from the body previously settled upon it. He hissed at the impact, though after a moment the boy relaxed and he sank ever-so-slightly into the couch. "Now, let me look you over."

As Ples took in all of Veser's injuries, the boy squirmed uneasily.

"Ah, my apologies," Ples said hesitantly. "If I may ask... what happened?"

Veser was silent. Though he tried to hide it, Ples could sense the fear radiating off of the poor boy, and frowned sympathetically. It was as if the teen was pondering whether or not to tell him. Though, he couldn't just show up on his doorstep at four in the morning and not say anything, right?

"U-um.. my dad... got mad." he averted his gaze to the floor and tensed up considerably.

Ples was still for a moment, deciding what that meant, and his mood sank at the conclusion. The _obvious _conclusion.

Veser was being abused by his father, what else could it have meant?

"O-oh, I'm..." he paused, biting his lip, wondering what to say. "I'm sorry." The teen's dignity was surging out of him by this time, all his pride and toughness that he worked so hard to build up crumpled down into what was truly inside. Why did he even come to this man's house in the first place? Perhaps he wasn't thinking right... after all, his head throbbed massively.

"Point to where he hurt you, alright?" Ples sighed. "Let me.. Let me help you."

A point to his right shoulder. The corner of his forehead. His calf, and his ankle. A small area on his scalp. Three spots on his abdomen, and several more on his back. Blood was seeping out from a wound on his elbow, and his hair was drenched in more. His left eye was almost entirely swollen, and his nose was slightly... off center.

"Oh dear..." Ples winced at them all. "May I... examine your back?" After a pause, Veser nodded, twisted around very carefully, and began to inch his coat off. It was proving to be a challenge to him, so the older man slid it off the last few inches. Uneasily, he began to inch up the back of Veser's shirt, revealing more wounds and bruises.

"Y-your hands are c-cold," the boy shook slightly. Ples mumbled an apology and rubbed his hands together, creating artificial body heat, then continued.

"Veser... how did..." he trailed off. Several lashes had been made across his back, and his garments were blood-stained and sticky. "How did this happen?" he asked again, tenderly. Veser sighed shakily.

"He, um, had a belt."

"...Oh." Another sympathetic frown, and then Ples rose up and made his way to the kitchen for supplies.

Veser was left shaken and in shock, though it was wearing off. He was safe now. Safe. Something he hadn't been for a long time. But when the time came that he had to return to his godforsaken hole of a house.. what would become of him? Would the beatings ever cease? _Probably not_, he thought bitterly. _They never will.  
><em>He could run away. Escape everything. Leave it all behind. It would mean abandoning his friends, though... he couldn't do that. They were the only people who had bound him to stay, to endure the pain. Leaving them was like leaving the only thing he'd lived for. Besides, where would he go? There was nowhere. Nowhere...

"I'm back," Ples announced as the strolled back in with a small kit in his hands. "Perhaps we should tend to the... wounds, first," he nodded nervously and flinched again. The blood had seeped down and was now dripping down his chin, bleeding into the contours of Veser's face.  
>Ples got on his knees and set the kit out beside the teen, clicking it open and removing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide along with some gauze.<p>

"Squeeze my hand if it hurts, alright?" The man placed his left hand gently on Veser's knee as he poured some of the chemical into a cap and dabbed a cotton ball in it. Then he, very slowly, stroked it over the wound on the teen's forehead. A hiss, he moved away, but Ples shushed him and brought his face back. "Remember, my hand." Veser snatched Ples' hand before he could continue his decent onto the cut. "That's better. Now.. focus on me. Not the pain."

Ples began to dab the wound again, increasing in pace and force, all while glancing back and forth between his work and Veser's gaze. The boy was staring at him intently, focusing as he had been instructed, away from the pain. A squeeze of hands. Another wince. Time slowed as the older man poured more peroxide and continued onto another cut.

"Good, very good, Veser," he cooed when the boy was shying away from his touch. "Look at me." Veser opened his eyes (That had previously been squished shut,) and looked at the other man before him. "Focus."

When the time had come to return his attention to the bruises, Ples decided it had been long enough and that some rest would do the boy more good than he could.

"You can stay here, alright?" Ples pet Veser's head softly. "As long as you want."

That's where he'd go, Veser decided.

If he were going to run away, it'd be here.

qpqp

Ples has returned to his bedroom, and was probably asleep. It had been a while since he told the boy that he could sleep in one of his house's many bedrooms, so Veser picked out the one most appealing to him.

He stepped into the bathroom, which had a massive mirror, and began to strip. He couldn't bare to look at his reflection, not yet.  
>The though of taking a shower entered his mind, but was quickly disposed of thereafter. He could not risk his bandages falling off. So, he continued with his clothes until the only garment that was left were his boxers.<p>

With a deep breath, he turned around and looked in the mirror.

Who was this? Surely not him, he decided. It couldn't have been. His eye was still purple, he had several bandages covering his shoulder and his forehead, and there were little blue and brown blotches darting his skin.

He turned around and traced his finger up his spine, across his back. Never looking away. Slowly. Goosebumps followed shortly. He felt the bumps, the bruises, the bandages, the untended cuts. He threaded his fingers through his hair and winced again, but he did not say anything. He didn't dare.  
>The boy felt down his legs, felt his sprain from his attempt to run away. He saw the painful reminder of the iron grip of his father, now a red outline on his upper arm.<p>

Five scars on his stomach. His fingers were aching in their joints, branded where they had been grabbed. Everything was aching.

But Veser realized something. He was not sad. He was not scared. Even with all the scars, the wounds, the bruises, he found out..

He was happy. For the first time he could remember, he was... truly happy. His father could not take that away from him, no matter how many whippings.

He was safe.


End file.
